over and over and

this place is not mine
this place where my mind
is kept
it pushes me through the walls and windows of other places
where minds are kept
over and over
I do the same thing again
over and over
I do the same thing again

I open doors and run inside
houses that aren’t mine
I break plates
kick holes in walls
and run out again

this neighbourhood is full of holes

face up against bitumen
and a car is heading my way
I see feet against gravel
a crowd watching me
I can hear them chanting

if I want to be saved
I only have to say
if I want to be okay
I only have to say

‘help me’

nothing ties me to the floor
the sun is hot
I am not stuck
I just need to see
see if maybe
this place is destroyed
this place that isn’t mine
where my mind
I can find something else that is

and maybe I can stop
doing the same thing

over and over
over and over

you crouch down next to me
stroke a hair back across my ear and say
that’s not how this works

I shut my eyes
tyres roar
over and over



Adelaide, Australia. 2017.

Everything is foggy.
Why am I so.
There is a cut just under the knuckle of my left thumb and I don’t know when it got there or how but it has been there at least the last few days and it is not like it is bleeding or there is a scab just a small flap of skin that folds back when you play with it and I couldn’t sleep this morning and I was tugging on that flap of skin this morning and it was raining outside and the sun was still faded outside and I could hear dogs barking outside when under my grip the cut gave way.
The flap of skin pulls back. And I keep pulling.
The skin peels back as one whole layer. I wait for it to break but it holds together. I feel my stomach push itself up my throat as I watch myself skin myself. A thin translucent and bloodless layer, soft in an awful way rolls
past my knuckle,
down the back of my hand
past wrist,
past elbow.
I reach my shoulder and pass out.

I wake up next to someone I don’t recognise and my eyes are blurry and I am freezing I am warm. I can’t move. There is a cocoon of air around my body and it is invisible and sinister holding me tightly and I want to get up I want to get out but I can’t move I can’t move my mouth and it is open and I try to say something but I can’t speak I can’t move.
My eyes focus. The someone next to me isn’t a someone at all. It is human shaped with a full head of hair, elbows, arms, legs, but without body without flesh without bones.
Completely flat.
Empty holes replace eyes and mouth.
It is then I realise that the someone is not a someone but a something that belongs to me. Belonged to me. I lay paralysed next to my own shed skin.
Tears fall from my eyes and I feel all of them. The moisture, the salt, the lingering trail it leaves as it falls down my cheek. I can feel, everything. And it hurts. My lips shake as I try to, if not say something, at least shut my mouth. My teeth are moving in my gums and oh god I can feel them moving. Waving in the smallest possible way, shaking from side to side. I can feel them.
I can feel,
There’s a breeze coming in from under the door and I can feel the dust that has been carried on it from the front door to here. The mattress underneath me is a desert of glass with each granule of sand a hair from my head or dirt I have brought here before. They cut into me. I am freezing, I am warm.
I can feel
Why am I so
Everything is
I am terrified.
I stare open eyed next to half of myself and I want nothing more than to be unconscious again. Unaware. Disconnect myself from this reality and remain in the safety of isolation. I force blackness into my skull and wait for it to overwhelm me.
But something stops me.
But something runs over my hips.
But something pushes the black away.
Soft, smooth, safe. Hands and arms that are not my own run reassuringly across my stomach, up ribs, along my throat and push against my chin. They close my mouth. Arms, of which I can feel every imperfection, every pore, every hair, close a loop around my waist. Warmth runs down my spine, curls down to my knees and around my ankles as legs entwine my own. A mouth moves itself to my ear and whispers.
“You are okay.”
Words spiral down to my brain, like water down a gutter. They splash down and crash carefully against the walls of my skull.
“You are okay.”
I can move again. I lift my hands to my face and see someone completely new. Pale and blurred around the edges. No scars, no acne, no wrinkles, freckles, tan-lines. They are new. I am new. I see someone new and I am not scared. I am okay.
My skin is clarity and my mind is reflected in it.
My hands move down and I fold my fingers between those wrapped around my middle. I shut my eyes and feel content.

Everything settles.


Glass in my fist.
Thighs wrists and ribs.
Red lines next to white lines.

Stealer’s Wheel “Stuck In The Middle With You” is playing loud enough that we have to repeat everything twice to each other in order to get the message across. I’m drunk enough that I can’t drive but not enough that I’m going to stop drinking. We’re half an hour into the hour and a half $3 schooner special when you rock up. You’re somehow louder than the music already and I don’t know how anyone else interprets it but your smile is forced and your laughter even more so. Immediately you’re complaining because you thought we were drinking on the other side of town. Immediately I can’t stand you.
I make some shitty and unnecessary comment to you about not being ‘real’ whatever the fuck that means. Your hurt is warranted but I glare at you anyway, finish my drink and lie loudly, saying I’m going to the bathroom.
Instead I walk down the stairs out of the pub and down the street. I chuck in my headphones and play something angry and dumb. I’m only halfway to my bus stop when you call me.
I answer.
You ask me where I’ve gone. You tell me to come back. You say you’ll find me.
I tell you to shut up and leave me alone. Don’t follow me, I want to go home.
I hang up and wait for my bus. It doesn’t take long and I’m about to step on when my pocket vibrates. There’s a paved quadrangle behind the bus stop and it’s with dread that I turn around and see you on the other side of it. I step off the bus.
I should have got on but I was so angry at you. I asked you not to follow me, I asked you to leave me alone. I guess I needed you to know how mad I was.

I want to be junkie thin
without the scars.
No stars in the sky tonight.

It starts in the normal way. I’m yelling about the same stuff and you’re apologising for all the wrong things so I’m getting more annoyed and you’re getting more upset. But then I’m yelling more and it’s more and it’s more often than it’s been before. I don’t know how to stop it. I’m overwhelming myself and it’s taking over. I’m so scared. This is not like anything.
Frustration swallows me and spits me out in flashes of violence punctuated by black spaces.
My backpack with a bottle of rum my friend gave me is thrown across the square.
I hear the bottle smash but it’s not enough.
I grab the bag, swing it over my shoulder and into the cement floor.
It smashes again and again and again.
I throw my phone and watch it skid across the pavement.
I throw fingers in your face and I scream.
I fall to the ground and punch cracked pavers again and again and again.
I’m crying out of everywhere.

Tyres slipping
steering wheel twisting
reminds me of something past.

Violence and screaming faces fill me. Your face strongest of all courses under my skin. Teeth scratches bone and mouths tear against flesh. I’m so scared, I’m so scared of me. I’m so scared of you. I’m so scared of you. In the middle of this square in the CBD I scream. I yell, not words anymore, just guttural yelling and bashing of voice against building. It echoes up the edges of hotels where people are sleeping and across the street where people are staring. I want to disassociate, I want to separate myself like I usually do so I can see this situation and understand it from afar but I can’t, I just can’t get away, I’m trapped inside myself and for the first time ever this terrifies me. You won’t let me go, you won’t let me leave even when I ask you too.
When I asked you too.
On a metal bench I lay on my side because my body won’t let me do anything else. I thrash as you lay on top of me and try to hold me, trying to be kind but your body is the antithesis to my own, it’s bricks and walls collapsing against my chest as I try to keep myself from suffocating under my own ribcage and I’m telling you to fuck off to leave me alone to fuck off but I can’t move. I hit my head against the bench once, then twice and then fall onto the cement floor. I want to go, I want to get out of here but my body won’t run and you’ll only follow me and then there is no running because the problem isn’t this space it’s you.
It’s you.
It’s you.
It’s you.

Red lines next to white lines
next to red lines next to red lines.
I separate myself.

I separate myself.
Somehow it’s over. You bring me my backpack. It’s full of glass and alcohol. I take out my wallet and keys then throw the rest in the bin. Inside abandoned is my favourite beanie and a notebook full of poems and writing from the last few years that I don’t have recorded anywhere else. You try and pull it out of the bin but I tell you to leave it. Tomorrow when you drive through the city you go to see if it’s still there. I’m glad to hear then that it’s already been emptied. Not because I’ve lost everything but because you don’t get to feel like you’ve helped me.
I’ve had this backpack since high school. My girlfriend before you bought it for me. Friends drew on it for me. I needed it gone because if I didn’t destroy something vaguely important soon it was going to be something else far more necessary.
There’s no more buses. You say you’ll take me home. I know this means you’ll stay over. I know this means we’ll fuck and you’ll say you love me and I’ll have to kiss you goodnight. I don’t want to feel like this anymore and I can’t think of another way out. At least here I’m in control. I can say sorry and not mean it. I can ask if you’re okay and not care what the answer is.
I should have got on my bus.
I can’t tell if it’s caffeine or not but my hands are shaking so badly as I’m writing this. I can’t believe how much of this is my fault. I should have got a taxi home. Why did you follow me? Why didn’t you listen to me? I’ve never lost control of myself as much as I did that night. My body and my brain weren’t me.
At the time I remember saying to myself that my future self is going to hate that I’m doing this. My future self looks back on this memory and remembers that I thought this and it’s like I’m talking to myself across time. I was right. I do hate that I did that. I hate that I’m doing this. But I go home with her.

We fuck and you say you love me. I want to throw up. I know this is what you wanted but I also know this is not the way you wanted it. I don’t know if you’re aware of what this is. I was always so good at hiding how I felt.
You say you love me a second time and I roll on my side. I don’t kiss you goodnight.
Your skin makes mine ache when you wrap an arm around my stomach. I flinch and my body stiffens but somehow you don’t notice. Or if you do you pretend it didn’t happen. I don’t know what to do anymore. You hold me a little tighter.

Tangled in sheets. Morning breath.
Broken glass found in gum.
Red lines next to white lines.

Minutes Before Sleep

Reykjavik, Iceland. 2016.

This house is creaking more often than it should, more often that it has before. My eyes run along cracks in the ceiling. I imagine myself small enough to climb up the wall and through one of these cracks. I imagine it runs all the way through the ceiling, up past the rafters and outside to the roof. Your breath is hot against my shoulder. In a house this quiet a creak is a quake and a gust of wind through the window a hurricane. Your breath is hot against my shoulder. This is where we live. You and I. In a quiet so fragile that we are often frightened to make any noise at all. Lest the silence collapses. Lest the walls collapse. Lest we collapse. It’s raining outside and for a moment I am lost in it. The tapping of drops against the pavement outside block out the leaky shower down the hall, the leaky sink in the kitchen and further still the drip dripping of the leak in the laundry. I shut my eyes and listen as water runs along pavement. I watch it in my mind crawling along the ground and soaking into the garden bed behind our heads beyond this leaking creaking house. It feeds weeds and the strawberries we optimistically planted the month before. They’re dead now. Hair tickles my shoulder and I open my eyes. This house is creaking more often than it should, more often than it has before. We are frightened to make any noise at all. During the day we tie our hands to the ceiling so our feet don’t touch the ground. We tape our mouths shut and breathe only shallow breaths through our noses. This is where we live. We said we are happy here. Hair tickles my shoulder. I watch your chest rise up.
Then down.
I imagine myself small enough to run along your side, dipping along your ribs and leaping over hips. I would rest between your fingers and feel safe curled against your stomach. The house would be so far from here that the creaking wouldn’t reach me. In a house this quiet a creak is a quake. Apathy and cynicism are playing doctor in my head. Apathy and cynicism are playing doctor in this house. They push under my skin, plugging my pores with plaster and dust. Apathy watches as I break out and cynicism scoffs. Apathy watches as the house collapses and cynicism laughs. I can feel my skin expanding as it bubbles and bursts. I feel it sagging and I can see myself watching myself melt into the floor as time pushes down on me. As this house pushes down on me. My bones are creaking more often than they should. I feel your face frown against my shoulder, lips curling against me. Your eyes are still closed. I lock mine with your eyelids as if you were staring back. It’s raining outside and for a moment I am lost in you. We said we are happy here. I close my eyes. In my mind I leave my body floating above us both. I drift upwards, pushing through the cracks in the ceiling, pushing through the rafters and out through the roof. Even without flesh and blood I feel the rain. The tapping of drops against my self block out the creaking in my mind. I close my eyes and slide down the tiles. I slide into the gutter, down through dead leaves and swirling through the drain pipe. I mix with the run off. I watch it in my mind as I crawl with the water along the ground. I didn’t know this before but the pavement is still warm from the day’s sun. I smile as I soak into the garden bed behind our heads beyond this leaking creaking house. My essence feeds the weeds, feeds the dead strawberries that we planted together the month before. I leave this house. In bed my body smiles.
Rain spills through the cracks.